Trif and Trixy. Habberton John

no lack of suitors, old and young, for all men like handsome girls who are also good, merry and accomplished; besides common report had it that Fenie and her sister drew between them five thousand dollars a year from the estate of their New England parents. Common report had set the figure about ten times too high, but never took the trouble to correct the mistake, so Fenie was the most attractive young woman of the vicinity, and many were the times when a merry evening which had been planned by Phil, Trif, Fenie, and Trixy, was spoiled by the appearance of some male visitor who had to be treated civilly, and who couldn't tear himself away from the witchery of Fenie's face and voice.

      There was one young man, Harry Trewman, whom Fenie seemed rather to like, and whom Trif and Phil, with their larger knowledge of human nature, wished their sister could like still more, for he was intelligent, modest, and seemed to have many virtues and no vices. They talked much about him when they were alone—alone except for Trixy, who was always so competent to amuse herself and to be absorbed by her books and dolls and her own thoughts that she seemed deaf to anything that was being said, for it generally took half a dozen separate and distinct remarks to make her change her dress, or wash her hands, or go to bed.

      The doorbell rang one evening while the family still lingered at the supper table, and the servant brought a card to Fenie.

      "Oh, dear!" exclaimed the girl with a pout. "Here comes Harry Trewman, just as we were going to have a jolly game of parchesi with the baby. I do think that callers might remain at home on stormy nights, when a girl hasn't taken the pains to dress for company. That young man needs a lesson. He has sisters and they ought to teach him that ladies don't expect calls on stormy nights."

      "It won't take you long to change your dress, dear," suggested Trif.

      "No, but—"

      "'Be not unmindful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares,'" quoted Phil, as he quartered a second orange for Trixy.

      "Angels—umph!" exclaimed Fenie. "Harry Trewman doesn't resemble any angel of whom I ever saw a picture. He's no stranger either, goodness knows; he's been here at least once a week for a long time. You shouldn't ever quote Scripture, Phil, unless the application is entirely correct."

      "Very well, then; 'Flee from the wrath to come.' Nothing makes Trif so provoked as delay in greeting a visitor."

      "Poor little Trixy. Her game will have to be put off," murmured Fenie as she rose from the table and kissed her niece.

      "Never mind me," said Trixy, from behind a kiss and a mouthful of orange. "The game will keep, but Mr. Trewman won't, if you don't be more careful."

      "Won't keep?" exclaimed Fenie, with a frown at the child and a suspicious glance at the remainder of the family.

      "Trixy!" exclaimed Trif in her most severe tone, while Phil put another section of orange into the child's mouth and his hand over her lips, while Trif continued:

      "Go along, Fenie. Change your dress quickly; I'll run up stairs and help you."

      "And I," said Trixy, after a struggle with the orange and her father's hand, "I'll entertain Mr. Trewman till you come down."

      Three adult smiles were slyly exchanged as the child assumed an air of importance, tumbled out of her high-chair and started toward the parlor, while her mother and aunt slipped up the back stairway and Phil buried his face in the evening paper.

      "Good evenin', Harry," said the little maid, as she bounced into the parlor.

      "Oh, Trixy!" exclaimed the young man rising in haste. "How do you do, little girl? I'm very much obliged to you for calling me Harry. It sounds as if you rather liked me."

      "So I do," replied Trixy. "I s'pose I ought to have said 'Mr. Trewman,' but papa and mamma and Aunt Fee always calls you 'Harry' when they talk about you, so I said it without thinkin'."

      "Oh, they do, eh?" Mr. Trewman's clear complexion flushed pleasurably and his moustache was twirled thoughtfully. If the family talked of him familiarly, there seemed special reason for him to hope.

      "Yes, they do it lots. I get sick of it sometimes, 'cause I want to ask 'em somethin', and mamma says I mustn't ever interrupt grown people when they're talkin', so I can't ask it, and afterward maybe I forget what I was going to ask, and that bothers me like ev'rythin'."

      "You poor little sufferer!" exclaimed the young man. "I ought to do something very nice for you, to make amends for causing you so much trouble. What kind of candy do you most like?—or mayn't I bring you a new doll?"

      "Papa and mamma don't like me to eat candy," said Trixy with a sigh. "They say it's bad for my 'gestion. Have you got a 'gestion?"

      The young man admitted that he had, but he hastily reverted to dolls as a more appropriate topic of conversation. Trixy looked troubled and finally said:

      "Oh, dear! Something always goes wrong. I need a new baby doll awfully, for the kitten bit the head off of my littlest one, but, you see, papa and mamma says it isn't proper for young ladies to accept presents from gentlemen."

      "Oh, I see—I beg a thousand pardons," Trewman gravely replied. "But would you object to my asking your parents' permission to give you a new doll—the finest one that I can find?"

      "Do it—quick!" exclaimed Trixy, her eyes dancing and her hands clapping gleefully. "I don't think, though," she continued, after a moment or two of thought, "that I ought to take somethin' for nothin', for papa says that folks who do that are real mean."

      "Something for nothing? Why, you dear little bundle of conscience, I'm to give you the doll in part payment for the trouble I have given you. Don't you remember?"

      "Oh, yes! To—be—sure. Well, I forget my troubles as soon as I tell 'm, so—so you don't owe me anything."

      Trixy looked sad as the promised doll began to disappear from her mental vision, so the young man said quickly:

      "You must have the doll, now that we've talked about it, and so that I mayn't lose the pleasure of giving it to you. You can give me something for it, if you like—for instance, give me a penny, to wear on my watch-chain."

      "I'll tell you what," exclaimed Trixy, her face suddenly brightening. "I'll give you a lesson for it. You like lessons, don't you—I like 'em—like all I can get, and I've got one for you that Aunt Fee says you need, so I'm sure you'll like it, 'cause ev'rybody likes what they need, don't they?"

      The young men admitted that they ought, if they didn't, but his face quickly became grave, and he looked furtively toward the door through which Fenie would appear, as he whispered:

      "Tell it to me—quickly."

      "Well, it ain't a very big lesson, but you needn't give me a very big doll. Let me see—what was that lesson she said you needed? Oh, I remember: she said that young men ought to know better than to go calling on stormy nights, when ladies don't dress up and be ready to see company. She said you needed a lesson about it, and you had sisters, and they ought to teach it to you. Mebbe, though, your sisters don't like to give lessons?"

      "They're not as active at it as they might be," replied the man as he arose hastily and took from his coat pocket a small package. "But—er—perhaps I am not as much to blame as I seem. I dropped in to leave a book which your Aunt Fee wished to read but couldn't find, and I promised to get it for her. I might have left it at the door, but I was thinking very hard at the time about—about a person in whom I am greatly interested, so I managed to——"

      "Oh, do you do that?" asked Trixy, following the young man, who was moving rapidly toward the front door.

      "Do what?"

      "Why, think of one thing while you ought to be doing some other thing? 'Cause if you do, you're just like me."

      "Bless you, my child," said Trewman, as he opened the outer door, "I do it all the while. Indeed, no matter what I am doing nowadays, my mind is full of another subject."

      "Dear me. What a nice subject it must be!"

      "So it is;—the